


With Fame Came a Mountain Claimed

by Alcoholic_kangaroo



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Groupie!Will, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 09:31:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15021716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcoholic_kangaroo/pseuds/Alcoholic_kangaroo
Summary: Thirteen year old Will goes to see his favorite band the Upside Down in concert.





	With Fame Came a Mountain Claimed

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not hugely content with this fic but I've had it on my computer for over two weeks now so eh.

Set in the 90's because I'm old and miss grunge.

 

 

The line for the theater was already around the corner of the building by the time Will and Jonathan showed up for the show. They hadn't expected it to be that long. Will hadn't expected there to be a line at all, considering they showed up five hours early. But Jonathan told him some people always show up early at these things. Jonathan would know, he's attended a bunch of shows in the past.

But this was the first one Will has been allowed to attend. He had been too “young” before but he just turned thirteen a month ago and though his mother was hesitant he had begged her, please, please, please, it's my favorite band, and Jonathan had reminded her that his first show had been at thirteen and come on, wouldn't it be unfair to give preferential treatment to only one son?

The clause had been that he was only allowed to go if Jonathan went along with him, and stayed glued to his side. And Jonathan wasn't really that interested in seeing a fifteen-year-old singer. Even if he was a hot alpha fifteen-year-old with curls to die for, which Will totally did not get.

“Rock music is supposed to be for adults,” the older teen had complained, wrinkling his nose the first time he saw the album cover in Will's bedroom. “What is this? A New Kid's On the Block rip off band?”

In the end, he had admitted they weren't bad. “A little raw, give them a few years to find their sound.” But he still wasn't ecstatic at the prospect of being dragged to one of their shows. He was happier over the idea of skipping class to wait in line, but their mother didn't know about that part. She thought they were going there straight from school. Luckily for Jonathan, his school doesn't keep an eye on betas much and Will still has a good two years under his belt before he had to worry about presenting. Only alphas and omegas are kept on short leashes in their town.

Will was worried when they arrived and found the line so long already, but the woman in front of them, a college kid wearing a Chicago Alpha U sweatshirt, assured them they would still be able to make it into the pit. “Just rush forward and get your wristband before they're all gone.”

It's cold out. April in the mid-west isn't a particularly friendly time of the year to stand in line waiting for a show. There's slushy snow on the sidewalk so they can't even sit down and every so often chunks of it falls from the rooftop. Jonathan had thought ahead, bringing with him not one but three flasks of liquor for the wait. One of whiskey, one of gin, and one of Irish Creme. He only allows Will to drink from the Irish Creme, and only in clandestine sips, claiming they'll get in trouble if he's caught giving minors alcohol. As if Jonathan, at a whopping seventeen years of existence, is the epitome of old age and wisdom. And legality.

Will likes the Irish Creme. It's sweet and thick like a room temperature milkshake and leaves him feeling warm in his belly. Jonathan lets him have the last third of the flask but makes him hide it in his inside coat pocket. Whenever he wants a sip he has to duck his head into his jacket like a bird preening itself. It's not the first time Jonathan has indulged him in this way, but the few sips of skunky beer he allotted him in the past never left a pleasant taste on his tongue, or a sense of newfound ease. By the time they open the doors, Will can see why people like drinking alcohol. He doesn't feel dizzy or confused, just relaxed.

Jonathan sticks the flasks in his boots to hide them, grabbing Will's and hiding it in the left one. Will isn't happy about the fact; he wasn't finished with it and now it will taste like hot socks. They follow the woman's advice and Will pushes his way through the larger bodies surrounding them, wiggling between hips and knees and breasts, and worming his way to the front of the clammy bodies. Snow is already starting to melt from boots and sweaters and it smells like wet yarn and sweating bodies.

One of the guards, a large man with a potbelly, eyes Will cautiously.

“Sure you want one?” he asks Will, voice gruff. “They'll eat you alive in the pit.”

“I can hold my own,” he assures the guard, “Give me two.”

The guard hands over two of the bright orange wristbands and Will squirms his way back through the hoard to Jonathan's side. Jonathan, not the most social person in the world, is leaning against a wall near the restrooms. He takes the wristband from Will and applauds his determination.

Jonathan tells him they can't walk around sipping from flasks where anybody can see him. He orders two large Cokes and they gulp down the soda as quickly as a can, then duck into the bathroom and hide in the handicap stall. Jonathan pours the bourbon in his own drink and the rest of the Irish Creme in Will's, then tops it off with the last dregs of the bourbon when he sees it's not quite full.

“If anybody asks, you like milk and Pepsi?”

“What?”  
“Watch Laverne & Shirley.”

The pit is already starting to fill up. Luckily, most concert goers are stopping to buy beer first, and the lines are long, so their detour to the bathroom isn't totally debilitating. Again, Will squirms his way through the crowd. Jonathan, rather passive for even a beta, wouldn't normally try to shoulder his way through such a crowd, but Will keeps a tight grip on his hand and pulls him along. People make way for them.

Somehow, maybe it's just his small size giving him the advantage of manipulation, Will almost makes it to the front of the crowd. There's only about two rows of people in front of them, though they're pressed together in such a mish mash of bodies it's hard to distinguish what constitutes a row.

Will is a good head shorter than anybody surrounding them. Everybody seems in a good enough mood, talking and laughing. Almost all of them are alphas. Jonathan can't smell it on them, his abilities in that era lacking due to his beta sensibilities, but there's something about their stances, the loudness of their voices. A few nearby women are already obviously drunk. Like Jonathan, many of the people in line had pre-gamed. They're laughing and touching each other's breasts, adjusting them it looks like. One of them puts her arms out so her friend can finish whatever this strange female ritual is, apparently not noticing his little brother directly below her arm. Her beer lands half on his shoulder and half on his head. Not the full thing, but a good half cup anyway.

“Watch it,” Jonathan bumps her with his shoulder. Will protests when he envelopes him in his arms, pressing his chest tight against his little brother's back. He's always been accused of being too protective of his brother, their father used to cruelly taunt him that he would present as an omega someday for the doting trait, but he doesn't care. He just wants to keep Will safe.

“It's just beer, it won't kill me.”

“Mom told me to look after you,” Jonathan replies gruffly, still holding Will close to him.

The theater puts on some oldies over the radio. Will brightens up immediately at Bohemian Rhapsody and joins the crowd in the sing along, his voice starting to slur. This may be the first time Will has ever been drunk, or at least truly buzzed. He's still drinking from his cup but it is already half empty. Jonathan is starting to regret giving him the bourbon, he's a lightweight.

Oh well, they still have hours worth of concert ahead and Jonathan doesn't plan on giving him anything else to drink. He should sober up before they get home. And he seems happy, swaying in the crowd, arms above his head, as he sang.

“Mama! Just killed a man! Put a gun against his head! Pulled my trigger-”

Who can resist this damn song? Jonathan joins in, his voice lower and softer than Will's. Will smiles anyway, and tilts his head back to look up at his big brother. They sway together to the beat. It's a nice moment, one Jonathan feels like he'll remember years from now.

The opening band is some local one Jonathan has heard of, vaguely, but never paid much attention to. They play something called Celtic punk which is...interesting. Complete with bagpipes. Some people sing along, recognizing the songs.

Around them, the crowd is already starting to jump. Jonathan feels the crowd pushing against his back and he keeps his grip around Will tight as he's jostled. Rowdy crowd. A guy in front of them is headbanging and Will takes a step backward to avoid being hit by the guy's long, greasy looking black hair. Jonathan bumps against somebody behind them.

It's not even the main attraction yet. All the bodies shoved together are making the pit feel steamy and claustrophobic, like they're a bunch of lobsters thrown together in a pot. Smells about as good too. The sweat is bringing out the musky aroma of alpha hormones. It isn't common for Jonathan to even be able to pick them up, but with so many of them shoved together here even his poor beta senses are starting to feel overwhelmed. Will feels hot in his arms, overheated. Jonathan wonders if he's uncomfortable. He should probably stop holding him so tightly, let him cool down, but it's his job to keep him safe and Will wanted to be in the pit so he could be close to his favorite band. It'd be different if they were sitting somewhere up in the stands.

The interval between the opening band leaving the stage and the _Upside Down_ coming on is longer than most concerts Jonathan has attended. The crowd must notice as well, because they start to become impatient. They're shuffling around them, shoulders bumping, the friendly voices of earlier starting to complain about proximity and blocking views. The girls from earlier are in a circle, talking and giggling with their back to them. Music comes on over the radio again but nobody sings along.

Will starts to squirm as well. His feet are getting tired from standing for so long and he's getting anxious. The _Upside Down_ haven't been around for a long time, only a couple years, but he was a fan from the beginning. Maybe it's because they're so close to him in age, but he really relates to the lyrics of the lead singer, Mike Wheeler. And to know they've already gone gold as teenagers is astounding. Will is just trying to get through class and find somebody to sit with at lunch on a daily basis, he can't imagine touring the world.

“Did you know Mike Wheeler played in Japan last year on his birthday?” Will asks Jonathan, shouting over the crowd. “The crowd loved him so much they all threw presents on stage and a giant cake in the shape of Hello Kitty was delivered to him in the middle of the show.”

“Hello Kitty?” Jonathan asks, clearly confused by what his brother is talking about.

“It's a-oh!” The lights dim. Bodies walks onto the platform, barely visible on the nearly blackened stage. Will's eyes skim the figures, trying to figure out if it's them or if it's stage hands. He sees what looks like a mess of overgrown curls on one figure, lean and tall, and grins. He recognizes the slouched gait from seeing clips of them on television. Mike Wheeler always walks like he's trying to hide the fact he exists from his audience. His band mates claim he's shy and self conscious in real life. Fame doesn't come easy to him.

The lights flash on at the same time as the opening song blares to life. The spotlights flash blue and green and violet. Mike stands smack dab in the middle of the stage, his fingers a blur on the guitar, his trademark curls half hanging over his face. The other two members, Lucas Sinclair on drums and Dustin Henderson on base, stand further back, allowing Mike full center stage.

He's even more beautiful in real life. Will hadn't realized that was possible. He hadn't realized anybody could be this beautiful. He hadn't realized anything in the entire world could be that beautiful. Will can see one pale knee glimpsing through a hole in his jeans. He's wearing a knitted blue and white sweater that's at least one size too big on him, hanging below his waist and draping around his arms, giving him the appearance of possessing wings. Like a bird.

But he's like an angel. If anything, they should be on his back. Will wouldn't be surprised in the slightest if he sprouted a pair of the fluffy white appendages right now and just floated up into the heavens. Or would his wings be black? Surely nobody this enticing can come from anybody but the Devil himself.

His voice is good. His singing voice raspy, deeper than you'd think for someone his age. Deeper than his speaking voice in the interviews Will has seen. He's glad they're so close to the stage because he's entranced with the movement of his lips. They're so full looking, so soft looking. Almost unnaturally so, like he's had injections or some other form of plastic surgery. Will's eyes follow Mike wherever he walks on the stage, zeroed in on him, as if the rest of the band, the rest of the crowd, doesn't exist. The only reminder that it's not just him and Mike alone on the earth is Jonathan's arms around him.

“You okay?” Jonathan screams into his ear as the song ends.

“What? Yeah, why?”

“You're just standing really still.”

Oh. Will hadn't even noticed. He was so busy just staring at the godly being before him he hadn't even thought to jump or scream or dance. Do people in mosh pits dance?

The second song is one of his favorites, and it's upbeat, and Will can't help but move along to that one. He sticks his hand up into the air like the crowd pushing against him and jumps to the rhythm. His head bumps against Jonathan's chin. The older brother makes a pained noise and steps back, letting go of Will.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Go ahead, keep having fun.”

Normally, Will is reserved. He's quiet by nature and by necessity. That is, he's gay, which while not necessarily unheard of in his small school, isn't entirely accepted either. If he had been a jock or skater punk he could have gotten away with it, because he was already cool, but not as an art kid. He usually spends all his lunches alone in the art room with the teacher Ms. Lava, an old-school hippie who makes her students paint things like “intuition” or “regret.”

Last year, he had sat with El and Max every day, his only friends, but the two girls had a different lunch period than him this year. But even back then, he usually sat between the two, both of them taller and more vocal than him, talking literally over his head. They were condescending sometimes, calling him their “little gay boy,” but he didn't mind. Not really. He likes being part of a conversation without having to put too much work into it. Jonathan is the same way. Their mother is louder than them both and jokes about giving birth to them during mass because “you two are as quiet as church mice!”

Tonight, though. Tonight Will is screaming his throat raw. He knows his voice will be hoarse tomorrow. And he's jumping, waving, yelling at Mike that he loves him. He wants to be seen. He wants to be noticed. If Mike would just smile at him it would make his day. No, his life.

Mike is smiling, his teeth white and even and perfect (not too big for his mouth like Will's), but he's not smiling at Will. He's just smiling because he's performing to a crowd of thousands and he's making music for a living. If Will could make art for a living he would be smiling too.

“I think he's better live,” Jonathan yells in his ear. “Like Nirvana is. I mean, were.”

Jonathan only saw Nirvana once, two summers ago. Mike had begged to go then, too, but he was only eleven and his mother said no. He'll never see them now. Their singer, Kurt Cobain, killed himself last spring.

Almost a year ago. God. How had the time passed so quickly? Kurt Cobain had been one of Will's first crushes. Back when he was younger, before he knew he was gay, he used to lie on Jonathan's bed and flip through the magazines he'd pick up at the grocery store where he works after school. He didn't understand, back when he was smaller, why he so enjoyed staring at the singer's long hair and mournful eyes. Not until he had a dream about him one night and woke up with wet sheets.

Will had cried when he heard the news last April. And Cobain hadn't even been his favorite musician. That privilege belongs solely to Mike Wheeler. What if something like that happened to Mike? What if he put a shotgun in his mouth? What if his plane crashed? What if a deranged fan attacked him with a knife? They're so close to him, mere feet when he comes to the end of the stage periodically. Anybody could pull out a knife, or a gun, or a-

He's crying. Jonathan doesn't notice, so he wipes a this face quickly, hating himself. He's supposed to be enjoying himself. Mike Wheeler is right in front of him and he's crying like a baby. And okay. Great. Fucking great. This is the perfect time for the musician to finally lay his eyes on him.

And he does. He's looking right at him. Not long. Their eyes connect for two, three seconds. Mike touches the corner of his mouth, as if telling him to smile, but that can't be right. This theater is full of screaming fans, he wouldn't go out of his way to acknowledge Will. But he's still sure he looked at him and that's enough. Will jumps again and screams out his name. He feels warmth blooming through his chest, shooting down his arms, making his fingertips tingle. Is this what being drunk feels like? It must be. This must be why people drink. To feel happy and warm and like their nervous system is set on fire.

“Do you smell that?” a male's voice nearby asks. “He smells amazing.”

Will does. He doesn't know how he knows but he does. Even here, surrounded by a sea of alphas, alphas dominant enough to shoulder their way into the pit of one of the most popular performers in the world, he can tell which scent belongs to Mike Wheeler. He just knows and they're right, it is amazing.

“I can't believe he smells so strongly,” another voice, a female, adds.

It is surprising. You wouldn't think one person's pheromones would stand out that much in such a crowd. It's musky in the way all alpha's are musky, but it also smells like something comfortable. Like wooden walls, like a warm microscope, a strong cup of hot tea. Earthy and natural in a way you wouldn't expect a famous musician to smell like. Nothing contrived.

“They need to get him out of here. He's going to get hurt.”

Maybe this is part of why he's so popular? Is he just that amazing, that special in just a basic biological sense, he can draw people in? If he always smells so strongly during a concert Will would agree with the people around him. Mike Wheeler shouldn't be seen live. Not without a good dose of suppressants, anyway. If Mike Wheeler told his people to go out and takeover Washington right now Will would gladly comply. It's the sweat dripping off him. Will's sure of that. Why's he even wearing such a heavy looking sweater on stage, with the spot lights trained right on him? Is it to try to cover his enticing scent?

Mike's face is already shiny with sweat and they haven't even been on an hour yet. Not even halfway through the show. He's drinking a lot, stopping to chug from a cup next to the drums between each song. Will watches him, transfixed, as he swallows the water. His throat moves, bobbing so that even from here Will can see the movement. The motion causes an identical motion in Will's own throat. He swallows every time Mike swallows but each swallow makes Will's throat feel drier.

Jonathan grabs onto Will's wrist. He winces, partly in surprise and partly in pain because his grip is too hard. Will turns sharply, to see what's wrong. He wouldn't grab him like that unless he needed something.

Except it's not Jonathan. It's another man, holding his wrist, holding him in place. Taller than Jonathan, older than Jonathan, wider than Jonathan. Will tries to pull away in reflex, not even thinking just knowing he doesn't want to be touched, but he's much too weak to free himself from this stranger's grip.

“You must be a pretty great slut to be here, huh?”

“What?” Will asks, voice much too soft for the man to hear over the music.

“Hey!” Jonathan yells, but Will can barely even pick it up through the guitars and drums. “Let go of him!”

There's movement. All around Will people push against each other. He can't see what's going on, not exactly, he's too short and the pit is too crowded but Jonathan disappears. Will can still hear him shouting, but he's several feet away now, and it sounds like he's getting farther.

Another hand grabs him by the hair. An arm, a woman's arm, goes around his waist. He can tell by the soft breasts pressed against his back.

“What're you-”

“You're a cute little thing aren't you,” the woman holding him coos, her mouth touching his ear. He feels something wet on the lobe. Her tongue tracing his ear.

“He's so small,” a male voice says from behind him. “I can't believe it.”

“Tiny as a newborn pup,” another male says.

“Bet he's tight as an unopened jar of pickles.”

“Coming here like that? Nah, he wants it too much. More like throwing a hot dog down a hallway.”

The words sound fuzzy in Will's ears. He's hearing them but it's more like he's hearing the echoes. The sounds come but their meaning is delayed and by the time he understands one of them two others have already spoken.

He doesn't understand the words right away but he understands action more. There's a hand on his ass. A hand kneading his crotch. One around his throat, squeezing him, cutting off his air. He tries to call out to Jonathan but nothing comes out. He doesn't like this. He doesn't know why they're attacking him. What did he do wrong? He struggles to get away, twisting and clawing at the air. He strikes out, trying to hit somebody, but he's too small and a hand catches his own and forces it to his side. Fingernails dig into his upper arms. Through it all, he can still smell the scent of Mike Wheeler and it's so overwhelming he's beginning to feel dizzy.

He hears Jonathan screaming again and tries to turn. He wants his big brother. The hand in his hair yanks his head backwards, exposing his throat, and a pair of teeth are on his jugular. He can barely move. There's hands on his arms, his head, his throat. The crowd is too tightly packed to take a single step forward. He tries to sink down, the only option he has available to him, but the hands pull him back up. It feels like there's something pressing against his ass.

The music has stopped. Or at least, the singing has, and the guitar has. The drums are still going, but those come to a sudden halt as well. Will is crying so hard he barely notices, overwhelmed by the sound of his own pleading. Even through his own guttural sobs he still recognizes the voice of Mike Wheeler.

“Get him out of there! Everybody, stop it! You're acting like animals! Right there, third row. No, there.”

Then Will can move. Not much, there are still hands on his arms and an arm around his waist. But the one on his crotch and throat are gone and he's leaning away, struggling. Not enough to totally free himself, he's still trapped in a tight ring of people, but enough he can half-turn. He cranes his neck, looking for Jonathan.

Then more arms are around him. Larger arms than before, encircling him. And they're moving. The crowd parts and Will is being dragged, kicking and screaming, to the side of the theater. He claws at the hand on his chest and sinks his teeth into a bicep.

“Stop it! We're saving you kid!”

Tan jacket. It's one of the guards. The ones they were watching out for earlier because Jonathan didn't want to get caught with liquor and what happened to his drink anyway? There's another guard in front of them, pushing people aside. And one behind him. Will can feel his hand on his back.

“Stay back! This is your only warning.”

“He's my brother.”

“Jonathan!” Will calls, trying to turn. He tries to twist his neck but something pings. A pulled muscle? He winces. “Jonathan, I don't know what's going on.”

“Fine, come on then.”

They're ushered through a door by the stage. The moment the door swings shut behind him the volume of the crowd drops tenfold. They're in a long hallway now. It's brightly lit, fluorescent green. The guard finally releases his hold on Will and Jonathan is immediately at his side, holding him.

“I was so worried,” he swallows, his voice thick. Will knows he's been crying.

“What'd I do?”

“What?”

“What'd I do? Why did they attack me?”

“Attack you?” The response does not come from Jonathan but the guard behind Will. He's smaller than the other two, only about Jonathan's height. He's also older looking, maybe his fifties. “Kid, they were trying to-”

“Will, you don't know what was going on?” Jonathan interrupts. “You can't tell? Don't you feel weird?”

“I just got attacked by a crowd, of course I feel weird.”

“In here,” the guard in front, the one leading them down a hallway, opens a door. It leads to a room with a couch and a table covered in cold cut sandwiches. Will stops in his tracks, startled, then glances up at Jonathan. He hadn't noticed the blood on his face.

Jonathan nods, his hand still resting on Will's back. They enter together. But not for long.

“That's a broken nose,” the older guard says, eyeing Jonathan's face. “Mark my word. You better see our medic.”

“I'm fine.”

“We need you to see the medic,” the guard insists. “For insurance reasons. If we don't treat any injuries its a liability to the theater.”

Jonathan grimaces. He turns Will around and stoops down, touching his face. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah, I'm, I'm okay.”

“I'll be back as soon as I can.”

The older guard escorts Jonathan out the door. The second guard, the one who hasn't spoken, turns to the other guard and says something quietly to him that Will can't hear, then he follows them out the door. This leaves Will alone with the first guard. Will eyes him cautiously.

“We're missing the show.”

“The show?” the man asks, incredulously. “Kid, you're concerned about the show? A damn concert wasn't worth the risk you took coming here tonight.”

“I'm not a kid, I'm a teenager.”

“I don't care if you're forty, it's moronic to put yourself in a middle of a crowd like that when you're in heat.”

“I'm not a mor-in heat?” Will stops. “What?”

“A bunch of alphas all stirred up at a show is just calling for disaster. Why didn't you take your suppressants if you had to come to this tonight?”

“I don't take suppressants. I'm not an omega. I'm a beta.”

“Right,” the guard rolls his eyes. “A beta giving off enough pheromones to cause an emergency landing of a plane. Just sit down and wait for them to finish with your brother. We'll get you out of here as soon as we can.”

Will sits down on one of the couches as told. Obedient. But his mind is swimming. In heat? How can he be in heat? He's only thirteen. And though he hasn't presented yet, he's definitely a beta. Everyone in their family is. Not just Jonathan and his mother but his father and his uncle Jim and his grandparents on both sides. There just aren't any alpha or omega genes in their family. There never have been, as far as anybody remembers.

But how can he deny it? He had just thought it was the alcohol. He knew alcohol made people feel warm. He knew it made them feel looser, more daring. He knows that drunk people often seek out sexual encounters with people they would otherwise have no interest in. So what if he had felt hot faced and free and aroused while watching his favorite musician in the world? Given the circumstances that seemed entirely natural.

Mike had smelled so good too. So enticing. Which, which he shouldn't have thought in the first place. Because most betas can barely pick up any sense of pheromones, and when they do they're not especially pleasant. Jonathan complains the smell of alphas to him is like that of the fox cage at their local zoo. Overly musky, sour, somewhat skunky. But Mike hadn't smelled like that at all. He had smelled comforting. Heavenly. The smell had made Will want to drop to his knees in front of the singer, encircle his arms around the other boy's waist and bury his face into his stomach.

There's something wet in his pants. Will is mortified because he knows what it is and it isn't anything he ever thought he would have to worry about. Slick. Only omegas produce that. And the males only when they're in heat. He can feel the slick welling out of him like a freshly cut wound. Slow, but steady. He wiggles in his seat, but it only smears the thick liquid to previously dry areas on his backside.

Jesus Christ.

The guard doesn't say anything. He stands at the door, waiting, looking bored. When he sees Will fidgeting, he misinterprets the motion and suggests Will pick up one of the magazines in the center of the table. But Will doesn't want to read about celebrity gossip, he wants his brother to swoop in and rescue him from his embarrassing situation.

It's a long time before the door finally opens again. Will is on his feet immediately, ready to just grab Jonathan and beg him to get him out of here as soon as possible. But when he takes a step towards the door he stops nearly mid-air. It isn't Jonathan. He's younger than Jonathan. And has better hair. And teeth. And musical abilities. And definitely smell. Probably taste. Lips too, definitely. Great lips.

Will is frozen speechless. He has no idea why Mike Wheeler is standing only six feet from him.

“Hey,” the guitarist smiles politely. Then he looks at the guards around him, the one already standing at attention by the door and the one who followed him into the room. “Could you please stand guard outside?”

“That isn't a good idea,” the new guard advises. “I don't think you should be alone with this fan.”

“He looks harmless enough,” Mike assures the guard. “I don't think he plans on attacking me.”

“All respect, sir,” the old guard says, and his voice is dripping with sarcasm. Will can tell he doesn't like referring to a fifteen-year-old as “sir.” “He is an omega in heat and you're a very young alpha. It is inadvisable to be left unattended.”

“Contrary to popular opinion,” Mike's sarcasm oozes back. “Alphas are not mindless beasts around a fertile omega. I would like to speak to my fan without prying ears, is all.”

Both the guards give Mike apprehensive looks, but they shuffle out the doorway. Mike watches the door shut behind them then turns back to Will. He smiles again and repeats, “Hey. How are you doing?”

“I'm, I'm okay,” Will stutters. He can't believe he's so close to the Mike Wheeler. His favorite musician of all time. And most gorgeous creature that ever lived. And all he can do is stutter and leak slick out of his asshole. Which proceeds to them drip down his thigh as he stands up to shake hands with the singer because, well, he can't just not meet his extended hand. Just this small contact sets all his nerve endings a flame. More slick slips out of him and his dick throbs. How long has he been hard? He was so preoccupied with his asshole he didn't even notice the erection until now.

“I'm sorry about what happened to you,” Mike says evenly. Will can still feel the burn of his palm against his own. “I always want my shows to be joyous events, but I can't always control the crowd.”

“I'm fine,” Will assures him once more. “Nothing broken.”

“Hm,” Mike hums in agreement. “I'm starving. Performing always drains me. Come eat with me. You're not vegetarian, are you?”

“No.”

“Good, good,” Mike nods. He's already moving over to the table laden with food. Besides the cold cuts there are small bags of chips and fresh fruit. “You need to keep your strength up. The guys won't be here for awhile, they're signing autographs. Grab whatever you want before they get in and destroy the table.”

Will only takes a small turkey sandwich and a bag of salt and vinegar chips. Mike piles three sandwiches, two bags of chips, and several generous scoops of the fruit salad onto two separate plates and carries them back over to the couch. He sits down where Will had been sitting and Will stands awkwardly, unsure where to sit. There's another couch but it's not close enough to the table to eat on. Mike waves at the opposite side of his own couch, choosing for him.

“Your brother will be okay,” Mike assures him, his mouth already full of potato chips. “They had to call some plastic surgeon in to look at him or something like that. To not mess up his nose when they reset it. I'm sorry he got hurt.”

Will shrugs and just picks at his sandwich. Not eating it, just tearing up the bread a bit. He can smell Mike this close to him, and he smells just like he had smelled on stage. Except stronger because he's right here. And something about the scent is more soothing now. Maybe because he's not exuding energy and vitality, he looks tired out. His movements are slow and drawn out. The smell makes Will want to lie down at his feet like an obedient dog.

“Eat,” Mike's command startles Will. “I know you're probably not feeling hungry because of your heat but you need to eat.”

He feels his ears grow hot. Of course Mike knows he's in heat. If he couldn't smell him, if he was a beta, he would still know about it because of what happened in the crowd. Stupidly, he wonders what Mike thinks of his scent. He can't smell it himself, probably too close to the situation, but he knows alphas usually like the scent of omegas in heat. But Mike is showing no signs of even noticing it. Is it that weak? No, the crowd smelled it. Maybe he doesn't smell good to him. Sometimes they're just too incompatible and then the scent has the opposite effect and becomes repugnant. Like when a brother or sister goes into heat around an alpha, or a parent.

God, he hopes he isn't repulsing Mike with his scent. His eyes burn. Tears start to well up in the corners. Jesus, don't let him start crying right now. Not in front of Mike. Is this how all heats are? A mixture of tears and arousal?

“You okay?”

“I'm fine,” he says, again. How many times has he said that now? He feels like a passive aggressive girlfriend, bitchy at her significant other.

“I know, like, physically, it's just well, uh,” Mike struggles and when Will glances at him he notices his face is pink. “Your scent changed. You, um, you smell sort of distressed?” He ends it more on a question than an observation. “You don't have to tell me, of course, it's just making me feel sort of anxious. The smell, I mean.”

“I can leave,” Will says, already standing up. “I should go find Jonathan anyway.”

“Sit,” Mike commands, his voice suddenly stern. It's a voice that Will is incapable of defying and he drops immediately back into his spot on the couch. He's so wet that it's like sitting in pee-soaked underwear. Mike pops another chip in his mouth, not acknowledging Will's submission to him.

He must be use to people obeying him. Not just unmated omegas, but betas, and other alphas even. Will sits quietly and watches him finish a sandwich.

“You're uh, you're not finishing the show?”

Mikes shakes head, a few curls falling over his eyes. Will swallows, resisting the urge to reach out and brush them from his face. Not that he'd actually be able to do it. Mike told him to sit and he feels like he's glued to the cushion now.

“The cops shut us down,” Mike speaks around a mouthful of bread and roast beef. “They're pulling in half the pit on attempted rape charges. They'll probably bring you in for questioning.”

“What?” Will squeaks, the word halting suddenly in his throat. His mother will never let him out of her sight again if she hears this news. “I didn't want to get anybody in trouble!”

“You didn't do anything,” Mike responds, arching his eyebrows as he glances at him. Will squirms under his gaze. Another flood of slick now oozes down his thigh. “This was the work of a bunch of mindless alphas who should know better. My sister is an omega, do you think I'd just stand aside and let them treat her like that?”

“But it's not their fault,” Will insists. “It's, it's my first heat. Everybody always says that's the strongest one!”

“Bullshit,” the singer scoffs. “That's just virginity culture trash trying to excuse alpha stupidity. I'm sitting here alone with you and you don't see me trying to force myself on you.”

“But my scent ar, arou-attracted them,” Will points out, blushing at the word, because he's never knowingly aroused anybody in his life. He's only thirteen for God's sake. Why is he in heat anyway? Who goes into heat this damn early? Alpha present early sometimes, but not omegas. They don't need to present young to establish dominance. They just need to get tall enough to fight off advances.

“So what?” Mike asks. His tone is enticingly dark. “So fucking what if they're horny? Nobody has the right to touch you without your permission. I'm hard enough to split through my damn jeans and I'm eating a sandwich.”

Will's heart jumps into his throat at this proclamation, stunned. Not just that he's sitting next to his favorite musician, not just that he admitted being aroused, but that he actually told him he was with no prompting. He looks at the singer's crotch, unable to help himself. His jeans are very baggy, but he can spot the slightest bulge even beneath the swimming denim. He licks his lips. Tells himself to turn his head away, at least avert his eyes, but they're transfixed now.

“Hey, my eyes are up here,” the older teen jokes. It's enough of a command that Will obeys, tilting his head up to meet his eyes. They're shiny with humor and he's smiling as he chews. Why are his teeth so perfect, anyway? Will licks his own teeth, self conscious of how big they are. His mouth feels dry and the friction of his tongue on enamel drags unpleasantly. Why are his lips so dry? It feels similar to when he had braces when he was nine and they used that weird laser to dry the adhesive stuff. The human mouth isn't supposed to be devoid of moisture.

The human asshole is also probably not supposed to feel this slimy. This can't be normal. It just can't. There must be something wrong with him. God! When he gets up will it just run right out of the leg of his jeans? It would be dripping on the couch if he was wearing shorts. He glances down at his knees, where they're tattered and ripped, and inspects for any sign of something embarrassing peeking through.

“Well?”

“What?” Will's head snaps up. Had Mile been talking this whole time?

“The bathroom?” Mike says, enunciating slowly. Will notices the slightest shift in the air. A change of scent. He wants a good, hard fucking then to fall asleep in Mike's lap. He desperately tries to push that image out of his head. “I was asking if you wanted them to walk you to the bathroom.”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” he agrees. Bathroom. Bathroom is good. He could wipe off his behind and thighs and maybe stuff some paper towels in his underwear to soak up the slick. Why didn't he think of that? Why did Mike think of it? Because of his sister? Do siblings know that sort of thing about each other?

“They might have some some absorbers too,” Mike adds. Absorbers, another thing Will never thought he would have to worry about. Humiliating. Nothing more attractive than having to stick a giant pad in your underwear.

Will isn't even sure if he can get up. He doesn't want to get up. He waits for Mike to get up first, maybe go outside and talk to the guards. He wants to take his time, to stand up slowly in hope of containing the slick, his foggy mind worried about momentum and angles.

But Mike stands up smoothly, easily, despite his lanky limbs, and holds out his hand for Will. He takes his hand, and despite this horrible situation, Will is happy just to be touching him. This is still Mike Wheeler. It's still his favorite singer, his celebrity obsession. Loved and wanted by people all over the world. And he's here with him, taking care of him, soothing him. Will knows he isn't special in anyway but this amazing boy is taking time out of his life to make him feel like he is.

“Shit,” Mike mutters. The way he says that single word, the tone of voice, sends goosebumps up Will's spine. “Shit. You're really wet, aren't you?”

“What?” Will glances down without event thinking about it. The denim hugging his thighs is damp, darkened with moisture. He winces, pretty sure he's about to die with embarrassment. “I'm, I'm sorry.”

Mike breathes through his nose. It's a confused gesture. He licks his lips and swallows before he tries to speak again but all that escapes is another “Shit.”

Then he grabs for Will. It's such a sudden movement that Will doesn't have time to fight back, not that he wants to. Mike feels solid and warm and good all around him. He's tall enough to tuck his chin onto Will's head as he cups him between his legs and Will likes that more than he thought he would. Will's cock throbs beneath the pressure of his hand through the denim, wet and sensitive from the slick. Mike's scent is heady now, possessive. He feels absolutely content as his body assures him that Mike will take care of him.

And he is. He frees Will from his jeans with a few expert movements of a hand and the feeling of his hand on Will's hard dick is so welcomed he can't but help sigh in relief. Except then the hand is gone, just like that, and Mike has pushed him away. Will stumbles, falling back onto the couch. His knee bangs on the table and he grabs it, crying out in pain.

“I'm sorry!” Mike cries out, taking one step towards Will. Then two steps back. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, I just, you smell amazing. I'm not like them, the people who tried to hurt you. I can control myself. I've just never smelled anybody as good as you. And I can just, just smell that you're unmated. Jesus!”

“Please,” Will pleads, holding one arm out to the musician. He needs to be back in Mike's arms. He's been rejected and he's in pain. He's still rocking on the couch, gripping at his throbbing knee. His voice comes out a whimper.

Mike covers the space between them in seconds. He's on top of Will, smashing his lips hard against the smaller boy's. Their teeth clack. This is Will's first kiss but instinct takes control and he opens his mouth to allow entrance. The kiss is rough and wet. Tongues press together, tasting, saliva drips down Will's chin. There is no fight for dominance though. Will is willing to let Mike do as he wishes with him. Even undress him, which he helps by pushing up his hips so his jeans can be tugged off over his hips.

There isn't any foreplay. Will doesn't need any foreplay and Mike is too overcome with need to bother with it. The most he does is plunge a couple fingers into Will's hole, thrusting them in and out a few times, testing his wetness. But Will is so beyond ready he's basically finished. He presses back against the digits, incoherently pleading for more. He can't tell if it's the heat or just the knowledge that this is Mike Wheeler, but the fingers up his ass feel like heaven. His asshole clenches around the fingers, pulling them deeper. They make a wet, squelching noise as he pulls them out.

“I'm sorry,” Mike says again. He's already unbuttoning his own pants though. Will sits up on his elbows and watches him, wanting to see him. His thighs are as skinny and white as the rest of him and the hair down there matches the black curls on his head. His cock is beautiful. It stands out so red, a splash of color in a sea of black and white. Will parts his legs, totally lost to instinct at this point. This is okay. He's an omega. This is what he's supposed to do. What he's made for. Everything about this situation feels perfect and natural when Mike grabs him by the knees and spreads his legs further apart. He's skinny, skinnier than Will even, and he can feel the musician's ribs between the plump swell of his own thighs. The juxtaposition of bony white and soft tan skin causes Will's dick to twitch on his stomach.

Mike buries his face in Will's throat when he enters him. It's not immediate. Will clutches at his shoulders, wishing for bare skin but enjoying the heavy sweat-soaked smell of his sweater, and holds his breath. The older boy presses against him, a hard cock head pressing against one of his damp butt cheeks, then nudges at the entrance. Will doesn't know why it feels good but it does. But then Mike is sliding into him and it's about the most perfect thing Will has ever felt. It's not slow but it's not fast. Will clenches around him, his oversensitive asshole throbbing.

He whines against Mike's head, the curls sweet smelling and tickling his nose. The smaller boy presses up, wanting more. Mike feels huge inside him but it doesn't feel like an intrusion. It feels like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle being set in place. But Mike just breathes into his throat, not moving. Will's throat feels hot and damp, he swears he can hear his own heartbeat.

“Give me a second,” Mike says, his voice strained. It's the same voice Will jerks off to at home with his Walkman. The same one that groans and screams and whines through his favorite songs. It sounds even hotter in real life. He wants more, needs more. Being full is good, being full is a nice start, but he needs friction. They must lay like that for hours because Will is near tears with need by the time Mike pulls back and kisses him. It's slower than their other kiss, more deliberate. His tongue strokes Will's; he tastes like fruit salad and vinegar and hot boy breath. But he's a good kisser. By the time the singer starts to fuck him for real, Will has already been reduced to a gooey mess from just Mike's mouth. Fuck his mouth with his tongue first, a nice preview of things to come.

The thrusts are short and sporadic. Will feels wet and engorged inside, and open in a way he never has before. Mike's hard dick inside him, pushing and pulling and dragging, is an entirely foreign but wholly welcome new sensation.

Will isn't sure if Mike is a virgin, doubtful. But there isn't much room on the couch. He covers Will fully, pressing down on him the entire time, not allowing for any sweeping movements, but Will is fully content with this. He feels somewhat crushed beneath the older boy's weight, his constricted lungs making breathing just slightly difficult. Still, he can't stop the breathy whimpers escaping his mouth. They seem to emit on their own, keening and low.

Will grabs for Mike's ass, pulling him even tighter against him. He wants all of him. As much of him as he can get. His body wants that too. He's still releasing slick at an astounding rate and he can feel his own wetness oozing onto his thighs, onto Mike's stomach. It's almost too much. He needs more because his slick is making the entrance too easy, reducing the friction too much.

Mike must be feeling the same thing because he finally sits up, just enough so they're no longer pressed together head to toe, and uses his new found freedom to thrust deeper. Now he's pulling nearly completely out of Will before slamming back into him. His hole clenches happily, liking this new development, and he hits something inside of Will. Something that has his screaming and clawing at Mike's shoulders like he were a cat being thrown into the tub. The singer makes a pleased chuckling sound and does it again. He kisses Will again, biting at his lip as he pulls away. Their foreheads press together. Mike's sweat drips into Will's eyes.

By the time he's hit that spot half a dozen time, Will has given up. He can't even grip Mike's shoulders anymore because he feels weak and melted. Everything right now has been reduced to physical sensation and he can do nothing besides lie on the couch, legs spread, and take whatever Mike is willing to give him. The slap of skin on skin is wet and dirty. Will covers his forehead with one arm and watches Mike from below, watching his parted lips and lidded eyes, breathing heavily through his nose. Mike Wheeler's sex face. He's seeing Mike fucking Wheeler's sex face in person. It's as hot as he had imagined in his fantasies.

They both know it's nearly done when Mike's knot starts to swell up. Only then does Will grab for his own dick and start jerking himself off. He needs to come before Mike because Mike won't be able to fuck him once the knot is full and he _needs_ to come. It doesn't take much effort. He's been on the edge for so long anyway. Just thirty seconds of pulling at his own cock and he groans as he shoots all over his own chest, painting himself with white streaks. Some of it lands on Mike's stomach. The sight makes his cock twitch out one last pathetic squirt at the end.

The sight of Will coming must be enough to take Mike to the edge as well. He buries his face back into Will's throat and bites down onto the skin there when he comes, marking him. There will be a bruise, claiming Will as taken for the rest of his heat cycle, which might still last for a good week, depending on his body's chemistry. When he comes, Mike comes inside of Will. That's exactly what Will's body wants. All of him, his body, his sweat, his cum. Will might have been a virgin when he woke up this morning but his body knows what his mind may not. He latches back onto him, pulling the singer back flush to his own body, his arms and legs like a vice around Mike's long, skinny body. Not that Mike is trying to pull away. His mouth is still on Will's neck when he collapses on top of him. The bite is both painful and extremely good.

Only when his body stops shaking from his orgasm does Mike pull his head away. Then he just lets it fall on Will's chest. They lay there breathing heavily, both clearly exhausted. And that entire ordeal only must have taken them maybe five minutes.

Five minutes that changed both their lives forever.

Because after another minute, Mike attempts to sit up, to pull off Will's body like he has done with his handful of other lovers in the past. He needs to clean up, to pull his clothes back on, to make himself presentable before the guards return.

But he can't pull away. He's knotted. Inside an omega. An unclaimed omega who happens to be in heat. He knotted an unclaimed omega in heat! He was too fucking stupid to even think about it at the time. He's knotted omegas before. But not when they were in heat. Not when they don't have an alpha of their own. That's different. Everybody knows that's different. Biology says that's different. The law says that's different.

He just claimed Will as his mate.


End file.
